“That, sir, will surely bring a crisis with General Gates and his confederates,” Wayne interjected.
“What do you propose as an alternative?” Washington said bluntly. “Continue to let these men starve? No, sir, that is finished.”
“Sir, I am a field commander, not a clerk,” Wayne offered.
Washington drew closer, and it was evident that the reply was not to his liking.
“A clerk, sir,” he said coldly, “at times is as valuable as any general. I am tasking you with organizing a special corps. A corps of supply for the army at Valley Forge. I give you free rein to find whatever is necessary to keep these men, these patriots, alive. This will be combat of a new kind, but it will be combat that is central to the survival of this army.”
As he spoke he pointed back, yet again, to the bakehouse, his voice nearly choking with emotion.
“Our American Revolution has come down to this. A score of cattle a day, two, better yet three, tons of flour. A ton of other sundries and several tons of fodder for our horses if cavalry and artillery are to move next spring. That is far more important to me at this moment than any brigade capable of taking the field.”
Wayne sighed, and Washington put his hand on the man’s shoulder.
“You are the one I’ve chosen, Anthony, because I think you are the only man who can get this job done.”
Anthony Wayne met his gaze.
“May I exact but one promise in return?”
“Name it.”
“That once this crisis is past, you will return me to field command. For surely I will die of shame if, come the next fight, I am ten miles behind the lines counting barrels of flour.”
Washington smiled.
“I promise that when we fight, you, my best fighting general, will be in the thick of it.”
Chapter Seven
Philadelphia
Evening, January 25, 1778
Lieutenant Allen van Dorn gazed one more time at the wavy image reflected back to him by the candle-illuminated mirror. He carefully adjusted the powdered wig, cautious not to let the flour mixture get on his hands. The uniform was new, having set him three months in arrears for pay, but General Grey had insisted upon its purchase and had even offered to pay for it. Van Dorn’s pride of course prevented accepting that offer.
“Listen, Mr. van Dorn,” the general had sniffed. “Not proper you being on my staff and in the uniform of a damn Loyalist.
“My lads won’t much care for riding beside you when the bullets are flying. Those damn rebels always shoot at Loyalists first, even before our officers. And besides, if you are taken, your damn rebel friends might string you up. At least in the proper uniform of my staff, you stand a better chance of living.”
Allen had not dared to reply that, if captured as a Loyalist wearing the light infantry uniform and identified as one of Charles Grey’s staff, chances are he would be strung up anyhow. The memory of the Paoli Massacre marked any man with Grey, for the memory of “no quarter” remained bitter and strong.
A bugle call echoed from below, accompanied by three huzzahs, signaling that the evening’s festivities had begun. It was followed then by a cry for a toast to the king. The toast was greeted with more lusty cheers, and then a lively reel started.
He took another look into the mirror, gazing at his long-drawn features. He felt a great sense of unease, as he did every evening at such events. The son of Dutch merchants from Trenton, he had never dreamed two years ago that he would be a soldier, let alone a soldier risen to the rank of lieutenant in His Majesty’s army. He struggled yet again, as he did every day, with his new identity.
No cheering of crowds, no impulse to escape from the mundane life of running the shop and tannery, had driven him to this fight. His brother Jonathan had been influenced by the passions of the moment after the signing of the Declaration of Independence a few miles away in Philadelphia, and had left Trenton to run off to the rebel side…and now he was dead. His own choice had been far more pragmatic. With the rebels he saw only the prospect of the rule of the mob: Once this so-called revolution of the common man was done, demagogues would, as had always been the case throughout history, pervert it to their own reasons and desires. In spite of poor Jonathan’s hero worship, Washington in the end would be nothing more than another Cromwell. Or, if not he, then someone else, such as Gates, would seize the moment instead.
And though General Grey had treated him well enough, admiring his bravery and openly praising it, he nevertheless was not one of them. Even the lowest-ranking officer from England had money behind him, education far beyond the one year he had taken at college in Princeton before returning to help run the family business. He described his parents as merchants, but never would he admit that their business had started as a tannery, a fact that would have left him open for smiling comments and derisive mockery as soon as he was out of the room. For British officers, a merchant was bad enough, but a craftsman or manufacturer would have been totally beneath consideration.
He took one last glance at his image, and then left the small room—a servant’s garret before the occupation—and started down the stairs.
The house was richly appointed and tastefully arranged, for it was, after all, the home of the famous Benjamin Franklin, confiscated by the army and quickly seized by Grey as his headquarters when they took Philadelphia. Grey had ordered that the home be respected, even if it was the abode of a revolutionary traitor who had signed the Declaration. For before that dreadful fall, Franklin had indeed been one of the most honored men of the Empire. Franklin’s fame as a scientist and writer was still intact despite his more recent, traitorous actions. Grey had ordered that they were to set the example as gentlemen and not deface or loot the house while occupying it.
The music swelled as he reached the second landing, a ceremonial flourish. There was a call for a toast for General Howe and his Lordship (and brother) Admiral Howe, and another cheer. He came down the last flight of stairs and turned into the parlor, which, during the day, served as a staff and map room, but in the evening was cleared of furnishings for their parties.
He had never been much for such things—the crowd, rich foods, the idle chatter. The war itself was supposed to be a topic forbidden at social events such as these, though at times that rule would be briefly ignored. Instead of practical talk, it was hour upon hour of mindless chatter about hunting, horses, the latest word of social doings back in London, what royalty was doing and who was having an affair with whom, and of course banter to charm the ladies in attendance.
He had also never been much for such doings. He was still a bachelor at twenty-five and, to add to his inner sense of insecurity, had virtually no experience with either the more courtly game of flirtation so easily practiced in these rooms or, for that matter, the far more earthy pursuits that many of the staff vigorously pursued and boasted about when ladies of breeding were not present.
He stepped into the swirl, the room already far too warm with so many packed in. He was drawn to the sideboard, almost sagging under the weight of offerings…roasted venison, partridges, pheasants and hares, thin slices of veal, pies of half a dozen varieties, rich, fresh bread that made him think of his mother’s baking at home, all of it arrayed around a central ornamental display: a gaudy cake molded to the shape of a three-masted frigate. It was the excuse for tonight’s party, to honor a frigate’s captain who had just made port this morning, bringing in tow a captured rebel brig, taken with a hull full of French muskets, uniforms, flints, shot, and powder, enough supplies to outfit an entire brigade.
Pegged to the wall behind the table laden with treats was a hastily made sketch on a sheet of paper several feet square, a caricature of the French king and Washington on their knees begging for mercy, the captain of the frigate standing before them with saber drawn. It was a fairly good effort, the captain’s smile one of disdain, as if debating whether to accept their surrender or lop off their heads.
“Obviously another work by John André,” som
eone said with a chuckle, coming up to Allen’s side, gesturing to the sketch.
Allen turned.
He could not remember the man’s name. A quick look at his tabs told him that he was a captain with a foot regiment. He could see the captain scanning him, identifying him as an officer with Grey.
“Quite the talent, isn’t he? Damn me, an artist, a poet, and the admiration of all the ladies,” the captain offered, as he gestured to a decanter of wine, a private standing rigid behind the table nodding and pouring the sparkling claret into a fine goblet.
“Join me in a toast?” the captain said, looking over at Allen.
“But of course, sir.”
The private poured a second glass and handed it to Allen, who nodded his thanks.
“Confusion to Washington and the damn French,” the captain offered. Allen held his glass up.
“Confusion to Washington and the damn French,” he repeated.
The captain looked at him and nodded.
“Robert Youngman, Twenty-sixth Foot,” he offered.
“Allen van Dorn, on the staff of his Lordship Earl Grey.”
Robert looked at him, head slightly cocked.
“Colonial?” he asked.
Allen nodded in reply.
“Well, no bother. We’re all on the same side here,” the captain offered, voice now filled with condescension.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Where from?”
“Jersey, sir.”
“Where in Jersey?”
“Trenton.”
The captain, obviously into his cups, sighed.
“Bad business there last year, but after all they were only Hessians.”
“Yes, something like that,” Allen replied in a neutral voice.
There was an awkward pause after they had drained their glasses, the captain motioning to the private to top off his glass again.
“Ah, there is the artist himself. My compliments, sir, on the genius of your work,” Youngman announced with a grin, motioning back to the drawing.
Turning away from Allen, the captain had raised his glass to the approaching captain as if offering a toast, and drained it. The object of his attention, Captain John André, came up to the two, smiling, and offered a slight bow in reply.
Born of Huguenot parents, André could more easily have passed as a member of the French aristocracy than an officer of the British Line. He had a dark complexion. He was slender yet obviously fit, bedecked as he always was in a rich, well-tailored uniform from the finest shop in London, a uniform that without doubt cost ten, maybe twelve times as much as the twelve pounds Allen had paid for his. His features at first glance could be taken as melancholic, and yet his face was alight with a pleasant glow. If there was an officer on Grey’s staff who knew how to enjoy and work a party, it was André. He was as much in his own element as Allen felt himself removed from it.
“Ah, Youngman, you devil,” André grinned. “When can I meet you again at the playing table?”
Youngman held up his hands in mock horror. “And lose another sixty-three guineas to you? Not soon, I hope!”
There was a momentary pause, André smiling at Youngman.
“Sir, I spot a fine chase yonder,” Youngman announced, gesturing with his empty drink to several women entering the room, “so if you will excuse me.”
He bowed slightly to André, who returned the courtesy and quickly withdrew. Allen stood silent, searching inwardly for a way to politely excuse himself as well. André smiled at him while motioning to one of the privates to refill his glass and gestured for Allen to do the same.
“Fool,” André whispered. “Lieutenant, if you need to fill your purse with a few pounds, sit down with Youngman. He is a most impetuous fool when it comes to cards.”
André watched Youngman over the rim of his glass, now full. “But do make sure he has money on the table. Those sixty-three guineas, I’ve yet to see it, though that is a debt from before we sailed from New York. A gentleman should not play with more than he has in his pocket.”
“I’ll heed that advice, sir.”
André looked over at him and smiled. “Then again, Allen, you are Yankee-bred, and I’ve yet to meet one of you born over here who would play with even a sixpence if you did not see the same on the other side of the table.”
André looked over at him and his features softened a bit.
“Sorry, Lieutenant, no insult intended.”
Allen tried to smile in return.
André looked to one of the privates behind the table. “Two glasses of claret, young man,” he ordered, taking the drinks and turning away.
“Come, Mr. van Dorn, I wish to introduce you to someone.”
Allen, genuinely surprised by this positive attention, could only nod. André had had some hard luck. Rumor was he had left England to escape from the anguish of a broken love affair, buying a commission and joining his regiment. Only days later, the regiment had been surrendered, sending the captain into captivity at a remote camp outside Lancaster.
Grey, forever the collector of promising officers, had grabbed André as part of his staff after his exchange. He was supposedly fluent in half a dozen languages, something of a poet and playwright and even an artist, as demonstrated by his satirical sketch in honor of the frigate captain. He represented the beau ideal of a proper officer of the king: cultured, of at least some independent financial means, well spoken, and, as demonstrated on the battlefield, recklessly brave.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” André said softly.
“Sir?”
“We’ve not had a chance to converse since that night at Paoli.”
Allen stiffened. He had hoped that this superior had forgotten that night, which he surely would never forget.
“You were right, you know,” André whispered.
“Sir?”
“Just that. You were right. It was out of control. You know the other side did send a letter of protest, which General Howe refuted.”
“Of course, we all know that.”
“Well, I am shamed by what our men did. But understand, young sir, that in a fight like that, at night, with unloaded weapons on our side, a certain terror and then a frenzy takes hold of a man’s soul.”
Allen did not reply. All he could picture in his mind was that André’s pistol was loaded. How he had pressed it to the temple of the man impaled on his sword and then squeezed the trigger. It was most certainly an act of mercy, and also freed Allen from the deadly embrace of his victim. But still…
“We’ll talk more later, it is just that I wanted you to know I understood then how you felt and agreed with you. Sadly, there was nothing either of us could do. And, sadly, the result is that I fear it has filled at least some of our opponents with a terrible resolve.”
André led the way from the packed room out into the foyer and into a room that had served as Benjamin Franklin’s library, three sides of the room filled with bookshelves that reached from floor to ceiling. In quiet moments when off duty, Allen had found this to be a wonderful place of solitude and study. Philadelphia had offered him long hours free of any duties, and here was a place he could find solitude and repose. He was intrigued, especially, by the books on astronomy and philosophy, many of them filled with scribbled marginal notes surely made by the great Franklin himself.
The library was quiet, the party having yet to spill out of the parlor. At the moment it was empty, except for two women, both of striking appearance. One was seated at a bench before what looked to be a small harpsichord, leafing through sheaves of music resting atop it. The other stood behind her.
Both were dressed in the latest fashion of the year, dresses of finest silk, the younger of the two sitting on the bench in bottle-green, the other in pale blue, wigs not too high, both decorated with ribbons of the flag and, in honor of tonight, the royal ensign.
André set his own glass down on a bookshelf, took the two glasses of claret, and offered one to each of the women.
/>
“Lieutenant van Dorn, it is my honor to introduce Miss Peggy Shippen,” and as he spoke he held one glass to the young woman sitting on the bench, “and Miss Elizabeth Risher.” He offered the second glass to the woman standing behind Peggy.
There were polite nods.
Allen stiffened, eyes meeting Miss Risher’s. Could it possibly be? he wondered.
“Van Dorn of the van Dorns of New York?” Peggy asked with a bright smile.
Allen nodded, then shook his head.
“No, ma’am, of Trenton.”
“Oh, I see,” and her smile drifted away.
“Might your father be Emmanuel van Dorn?” Elizabeth asked.
A bit surprised, Allen nodded in the affirmative.
“My dear cousin Rebecca Risher is married to, let’s see, I believe your cousin George. I think you and I met several years back at their wedding.”
Startled, Allen looked at her closely, trying not to visibly react. She had indeed been at the wedding, a lovely vision he had wished to approach for a dance, though shyness prevented him from doing so.
She smiled in a friendly fashion, came forward and offered her hand.
“Well,” André laughed, “one could say you are almost kin.”
“I know your family well, sir,” Elizabeth continued, “and can affirm they are of fine breeding, gentle manners, and loyal to our king.”
She smiled up at him, and he wondered if she knew of his brother Jonathan and his fate.
He held her gaze and waited, as if almost ready for her to drop the next line—that his family business had been a tannery and leather goods, definitely not an acceptable origin for an officer of the British Army.
“I am delighted to see you in the uniform of our king,” Elizabeth continued, and something in her gaze seemed to say more. Was it a surprise that he was in such a uniform?
“Elizabeth and I, for the life of us, cannot figure this thing out,” Peggy interjected, and she turned and slapped the top of the instrument she was sitting in front of.
André laughed.
“Oh, it is one of Dr. Franklin’s infernal devices.”
Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory Page 20
